After Time after time
by blugekko
Summary: Another episode that I felt ended a bit too abruptly. May I offer my own meandering thoughts as a possible conclusion


**After "Time after time"**

_This is one of those episodes that ended just a little too abruptly for my liking. So, may I present one of my theoretical meanderings on that beloved lost plateau._

_mid Season 1 Takes place after the episode "Time after time." And let's assume that John Roxton stayed a moment longer to ask "Kemper who?" after he and Veronica discovered and revived the unfortunate Challenger and "unconscious-boy" Malone._

Marguerite leaned again the solid form of John Roxton, taking comfort in his presence. His left arm gently hugged her to him, his gun clasped loosely in his right hand which was dangling by his side. It was an odd tableau of vulnerability and vigilance, the perfect expression of the twist their lives had just taken.

After a small eternity Marguerite pulled away, wiping angrily at her tears as if she could make them vanish from her eyes and John's memory.

Wordlessly he offered her his handkerchief, his eyes reflecting a wealth of emotions she'd only seen once before when they'd both nearly perished by their own doing. In their defence, they'd been under the influence of some or other hallucinogenic fungus, but it had brought forth dark aspects of their past that had nearly overwhelmed them. That day he had also been there for her to lean on as she cried like a heart-broken child. She flashed him a thankful smile, not quite trusting her voice yet.

Lord how she hated to appear like a vulnerable fool! She worked so hard to present the world with the image of a strong and capable woman, able to go from mending clothes to shooting dinosaurs in the blink of an eye. And now this…

Marguerite found Roxton's obvious concern endearing, if a little irritating. He needn't have worried though; she would deal with her jumbled thoughts and emotions on her own, as she always had. She retrieved her gun as an excuse not to have to look him in the eye just yet. He often saw more than she was willing to reveal, and she was not ready to give any type of explanation to him, or anyone else. Some of the 'facts' she'd learnt from her own futuristic journal entries had touched her more deeply than she would ever care to admit.

It had been a shock to find out that she had been… no, would've been, the cause of a worldwide epidemic. All the wealth in the world could never justify it, whatever James Kemper and the rest of the humanity thought of her. And the paragraphs Catherine had prompted her to read…somehow seeing it in her own handwriting had changed her belief, making it more than a wild tale told by a dark-haired woman that vaguely resembled her. Marguerite's voice had hardened when she finally spoke. "What a day this has turned out to be. Between Kemper threatening to shove me through the portal and locking it, and a gun-wielding woman intent on killing me and re-writing history, I'm not sure which is worse."

The words had barely left her mouth when they heard the voices of their companions drifting in from somewhere outside. Marguerite took a deep steadying breath, pushing her emotions deep down inside her and locking it away to be dealt with when it suited her. But not now, and not in front of everyone.

"She seemed a remarkable woman," John had tactfully turned away while she dried her eyes, ostensibly to gather her fallen pack lying discarded after her struggle with Catherine.

"Brave, determined, unconventional in her approach – I would expect nothing less from a theoretical great granddaughter." Marguerite's tone sounded like her usual acerbic self, but when John looked at her he saw more. There was both pride and regret visible if you knew where to look.

"Granddaughter?" John's eyebrows rose. "She told you that?" He recalled his earlier comment regarding Catherine's ability to talk them out of trouble with the masked guardians. _Now that's a page out of Marguerite's book if I ever saw it._ There had been other resemblances as well, both physical and personality wise, he thought, remembering the expression of determination he had witnessed in Catherine's expressive grey-green eyes. She also shared Marguerite's ruthlessness, willing to kill whoever stood between her and her goal; he shook his head in amazement, still surprised by the revelation.

Marguerite nodded in mute confirmation as they once again heard their names being called, the voices closer this time.

John approached to where she was squatting where Catherine's body had been, offering her a hand up. He still had a gentle smile on his face, reflecting the sentiment in his eyes. "Time to go." The corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile.

"Roxton! Marguerite!" Veronica's voice echoed between the abandoned buildings.

"They have to be around here somewhere," Challenger could be heard close by.

"The sound of gunfire definitely came from this direction." Ned's voice drifted in as well.

"Sounds like the cavalry have arrived; although their timing leaves something to be desired." Marguerite gave a quick smile that somehow didn't quite reach her eyes as she started up the steps.

Roxton wanted to reach out and pull her back inside, close to him. She'd just been through an obviously traumatic experience, again – he grimaced – and he wanted nothing more than to offer her a moment's peace to deal with it. Somehow there never seemed to be time for that though, as life on the plateau insisted on carrying on, regardless of the participants' wishes.

"Better late than never I suppose," John caught up to her, pulling aside the leafy vines covering the entrance to allow her to exit first.

They stepped outside, and nearly into the other three members of their team. Marguerite stood defiantly, hands on her hips as they confronted each other.

"You're safe!" Challenger beamed.

"Right - now they're concerned for our wellbeing; after leaving me to deal with not one, but two visitors from the future intent on doing away with me." Marguerite scolded them.

The looks of relief changed to chagrin and irritation as they saw that Marguerite and Roxton were not only alive and well, but Marguerite's abusive nature was fully functional.

"Kemper tricked us," Ned spoke up in defence. "I caught him out in a lie about…my future, and he turned on me." He hoped no-one had noticed the slight hesitation in his voice. Talking about Gladys, especially within Veronica's hearing, always made him feel guilty – even if he hadn't done anything.

"I found our supposed friend standing over Ned's unconscious form, and I'm embarrassed to say he got me too," Challenger admitted, tugging at his beard.

"What happened? And where's Catherine and Kemper?" Veronica focused on the important facts, also offering Malone and Challenger some relief by changing the subject.

Marguerite busied herself with replacing her hat, leaving Roxton to field the question.

"They're gone, both of them. Kemper shot Catherine, and I took care of him. After we closed the doorway and destroyed the key, they vanished." Roxton's reply was unusually abrupt.

"What about…" Ned's question was cut off rather abruptly as they became aware of movement and voices shouting commands around them.

"The guardians," Veronica hissed.

"I guess we've overstayed our welcome," Ned mused, following the example of the others and drawing his weapon.

"Let's go….carefully," Roxton urged, his eyes sweeping the surrounding terrain as Veronica led the way, followed by Ned, Marguerite and Challenger. He brought up the rear, continuously scanning for any sign that the guardians meant more than to just hurry them along.

They left the area at a quick pace, only slowing down when both Roxton and Veronica were sure they weren't being followed anymore.

"May I suggest a break before we continue back to the treehouse?" Challenger rubbed at his jaw where Kemper had struck him. It throbbed with pain that was being aggravated by their hasty retreat. Ned nodded, still feeling a bit weak after his own run-in with Kemper.

Veronica and John shared a quick smile before she replied. "Just a little further professor, we don't have to walk all the way to the treehouse. Roxton and I used the balloon to follow you as quickly as possible. It's tethered not too far away."

"That's good news," Ned grinned with relief, Challenger grunting in agreement.

They reached the balloon shortly after, lapsing into companionable silence as they completed the journey back to the treehouse.

* * *

"That Kemper fellow sure had us fooled," Ned said as he used his fork to spear one of the last pieces of vegetables on his plate. 

The winds had been favourable for the balloon trip, and they'd managed to return to the treehouse just as the sun was sinking below the western ridge. While the others tended their various cuts and bruises, Summerlee had set about preparing supper. Between the six of them they'd pieced together the sequence of events, the lively discussion continuing through supper.

"He was so convincing, even going so far as showing us a newspaper article detailing our triumphant return." Ned continued.

"Some triumph it turned out to be," Marguerite snorted derisively, cradling her wine glass before her. She'd barely touched her food, preferring instead the easy flow of the ruby liquid.

"His tales were most beguiling, pandering to our wishes and desires. I can't help but wonder where he obtained such detailed knowledge of us." Challenger mused.

"The young lady was also quite knowledgeable," Summerlee nodded sagely. "She knew who we were, why we were here. But also more importantly, where and when we were," Summerlee's eyes twinkled in fond memory as he shook his head. "Imagine that, setting off on a journey through time to right past wrongs." Even though she'd ended up pointing a gun at him, he was convinced there had been a good person beneath the ruthless façade.

"Perhaps my memoirs, or even a series of books," Ned's eyes lit up at the thought. Ned loved writing, he had in fact made it his life's work, and to see his name in print all over the civilized world… his daydream was rudely interrupted by the next comment.

"Perhaps. But I think Marguerite's journal offered him quite a bit of insight as well," Veronica couldn't resist teasing Ned, but regretted it when she saw the others freeze and Marguerite's glare.

"Marguerite has a journal?" Ned's eyes burned with an unholy glow. "Who would've thought," his eyes narrowed as he looked in the dark-haired woman's direction. She returned his gaze with a hard-edged one of her own. "Perhaps she should share some of it with us?" Ned knew he was dancing on a knife edge, but couldn't resist getting his own back. A few weeks ago Roxton had had to hastily intervene to stop Malone from doing something he might regret, after the journalist had found Marguerite pawing through his more private journal entries. Obviously he still hadn't forgiven her for it.

"Malone," John's voice was low and steady like the gaze he fixed on the youngster, cautioning him to watch his step.

Malone looked away with a sullen expression on his face – how did Marguerite always manage to win without even being getting into it? You'd swear Roxton was her self-appointed guardian or something. Although, Marguerite didn't look too happy it, sending the same hard look in Roxton's direction.

"This whole issue of voyagers from the future is quite…" Challenger shrugged, at a loss for words. Summerlee shot him a grateful glance for changing the topic, but found the professor was only voicing his self-absorbed thoughts. To all appearances he was completely unaware of the brewing unrest in their company. Summerlee sighed; sometimes it felt like he was the only adult trapped with a group of children.

"Although I have to admit the evidence was rather convincing," Challenger continued. "Tell me, when the young lady appeared, was it accompanied by the same audio and visual phenomena as I witnessed when Mr Kemper appeared?" George looked at Veronica and John.

"If you mean a blinding flash and roar like lightning striking too close for comfort. Then yes," Veronica smiled impishly at George.

"Fascinating," George mused. "It must be some sort of artefact from the translocation process. I wonder if the traveller is even aware of the phenomenon. Or whether it affects them in some way?"

"Perhaps that would explain why the rest of Catherine's companions became such easy targets – not paying attention to the world around them," Summerlee voiced with raised eyebrows, his comment directed at more than one target.

"Exactly," Challenger pounded a fist on the table for emphasis. "That young man Kemper, he might have had some medical background, but physics was obviously not his strong suite."

"Why do you say that?" Ned asked.

"From what Roxton and Marguerite tell of the final confrontation, the young man's logic left much to be desired. When Marguerite refused to step through the gate, he supposedly threatened to drag the wounded Catherine through the tunnels, claiming that he would use her to spread the plague in our time."

"But that wouldn't have worked – she would never have survived the trip," Ned snapped his fingers in eager anticipation that he had found the flaw in Kemper's plan.

Summerlee smiled at the youth's exuberance, and the dazed look on Challenger's face as his flow of 'logic' was interrupted.

"Yes, yes, probably that too. But I'm referring to the whole paradox. Even if he'd managed to get Catherine through the passages, he'd just succeed in destroying his own future." Challenger announced proudly.

"How?" Veronica asked, curious despite herself.

"Roxton said that he'd overheard Kemper saying that Catherine inherited Marguerite's immunity, hence she must be a direct descendent. For that to happen, Marguerite would've had to travel to England and have a child at a specific stage in our alleged future. But if Kemper left her stranded here, then she would never have the child that Kemper's history said she'd had, and thus the Catherine he knew might never exist, along with her inherited immunity. Thus he wouldn't need to find a cure, because there would never be a plague!" George announced triumphantly, confident that it was a clear cut matter.

"Wait…I'm not sure I follow," Ned's frown had deepened during the supposed explanation.

"Neither do I, and maybe that's not a bad thing," Summerlee harrumphed. "Really George, your train of thought is as convoluted as only you could make it."

"My good man," Challenger straightened up as he prepared his repartee. "If you're not up to the task of grasping the scientific principles at work here, don't blame it on my thought processes. As much as I would like to protest the existence of time travel, the evidence can't be denied." And shouldn't be, another part of Challenger added. As loudly as he had protested the phenomenon, he couldn't argue with the facts. And it was an intriguing subjects indeed – the interplay of space and time, and man's success in manipulating it, even if it hadn't happened yet. Or will. Perhaps he should pursue this intriguing challenge in his laboratory.

"The only thing I can't grasp is your astonishing conviction of your own genius, even if it is misled." Summerlee replied with as much fire in his eyes.

Veronica smiled, enjoying what was no doubt the start of one of the famous Challenger-Summerlee discussions.

"I'm going to get some fresh air before I fall asleep," Marguerite abruptly pushed herself away from the table, still clutching her wineglass. Conversation halted momentarily, only to pick up swiftly when she disappeared onto the balcony.

The others were probably relieved she'd left, Marguerite thought as she rested her elbows on the balcony railing, staring out at nothing in particular. Was it her imagination, or did even the conversation sound easier and more light-hearted now that she was gone. Perhaps… she squashed the thought, instead taking a large gulp from her wineglass to distract her from that course of thought.

"Care for a refill," John's voice at her side surprised her. Then again, she should've guessed he'd be the one to come running after her. It evoked a split sense of feeling in her – a part of her was angry that he thought she needed looking after; while the other part welcomed his presence, and his understanding. Strange, she'd have thought it would be Summerlee who would be the one to approach her. He knew Marguerite better than any of the others did, and he had the ability to offer compassion without condescension – a rare and valued gift. But right now, Roxton stood at her side.

"Thank you," she held out her glass. He poured wine into her glass before topping up his own, setting the bottle down within easy reach. They stood like that in silence for a few minutes, Roxton wordlessly offering his companionship and a willing ear if she so wished. Marguerite wondered how long he could stand the silence before he felt obliged to break it. Or would he respond to the 'leave me alone' air she had drawn around her like a cloak and seek friendlier company elsewhere. But instead he took a tact that surprised even her.

He twisted his glass idly in his hands, watching the moonlight reflect in the wavelets of dark liquid. "When I realized I had shot Catherine, I thought I'd stepped into a cruel nightmare of the worst kind. Veronica kept telling me that it was an accident, that it wasn't my fault. But as much as I wanted to, I just couldn't bring myself to believe it." Ever since he had grazed Catherine with his gunshot, he'd felt a responsibility toward her – as if he owed her something. And then when she died in his arms, he felt like he'd failed her, even though he helped her succeed in her quest.

The silence dragged on as each stood caught up in their thoughts. Although he made no specific reference to the accident that caused his brother's untimely death, Marguerite had no doubt that that was what had circled through his thoughts. What did he expect from her, to reach out and tell him that everything was all right? Well, it wasn't, and she was not about to turn to him to either offer or seek assurance, to look into his eyes and be caught in their dark depths. Instead she took another sip of her own wine, cherishing the feeling of comfort it brought as it slid down her throat to warm her stomach.

"And then I helped her to find you - and her own death. Not something I would like to be remembered for," he gave a humourless grin. "Even after piecing together the story as best we could, trying to get see the where everything fits in, I still feel guilty. And it doesn't stop me from playing the 'what if' game. What if I hadn't wounded her, and she'd caught up to you earlier? What if she'd been left to confront Kemper alone, and failed before she could speak with you? What if Kemper's plan worked, leaving you either dead or trapped or all of us back home in time to die?"

Marguerite winced inwardly as she heard him echo the words she'd read; words written in her own hand. _And one other, one death more; of the man I loved. I thought I was a hero. I didn't know I was bringing him home to die…_

She nearly missed his next words as he continued. "Whatever did happen, I have to believe that it worked out for the best." He took a deep breath, sighing it out. "Seeing my name and date of death – it left me more shaken than I would care to admit. It was certainly a convincing argument on Catherine's side."

"You read the journal?" Marguerite surprised herself with the abruptness of her question.

"Just the one entry." He glanced at her, reading the mixture of agitation and concern in her expression. Shifting his gaze away to the view outside, he recited the words that had chilled him to the bone. "Lord John Richard Roxton, born January 12th 1882. Died June 23rd 1920. Neither ape men nor dinosaurs could …" Roxton stopped as he sensed Marguerite stiffening with surprise. "Marguerite?" he drew his arms away from the railing, standing up in readiness for…what?

"So soon?" she managed.

"Rather," he grinned ruefully, one eyebrow twitching in macabre amusement. "It came as a hell of a surprise to me too."

"Yes," Marguerite still seemed lost in thought. She looked past Roxton, her gaze fixed on something only she could see. Catherine had said her grandmother was born a month before they'd traced the origin of the plague to her in October 1922, which meant that there was no way that John… Marguerite was even more surprised by the regret she felt at that knowledge. "Dates, numbers, words," she said in a sing-song voice as she shrugged dismissively, "facts in a book that no longer exists, nor ever will, along with the people that brought it."

Roxton shrugged, a sad smile on his face. "Perhaps. I just wish things had ended better for Catherine. To live her life as an outcast, to die and then never to be born – it seems an unusually cruel twist of fate; even for the plateau." Although he'd only known her a brief few hours, Catherine had made a lasting impression, and her death had left him with a profound sense of loss he couldn't explain rationally, and had given up on trying to justify. Inexplicable or not, he vowed to keep her memory alive with him, for always. An insignificant tribute in the greater scheme of things, but nonetheless important to him.

"But she succeeded," Marguerite brought him back to the present, her statement filled with conviction, and something that could be pride. "She took control of her life and changed so-called destiny. Which is more than any of us can aspire to." She smiled softly, her gaze still focused elsewhere; once again leaving Roxton with the distinct feeling that she was seeing something beyond the confines of reality. Her encounter with Catherine had also affected her deeply, an unusual and somewhat uncomfortable feeling for a woman who liked to be in charge of herself and everything around her. It was disconcerting, and a feeling she was forced to deal with more and more often on the plateau.

Roxton reached for the wine bottle again, splitting the remaining liquid between their glasses. "To Catherine." He lifted in glass in toast.

"To Catherine, a singularly unforgettable woman," Marguerite lightly clinked her glass against his, missing Roxton's startled expression at hearing his own thoughts echoed.

_The end_


End file.
